


(two different ways to say) faith {ii}: motivo

by pendules



Series: compare/contrast [3]
Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-19
Updated: 2011-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-15 19:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendules/pseuds/pendules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Athens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(two different ways to say) faith {ii}: motivo

There are rumors, but Kakà says nothing. Even Yoann, of all people, asks him something about it. Yoann, with his messy shock of dark hair, and his _so_ green, _too_ green eyes, and pink, _so_ young, _too_ young face, biting his bottom lip (though Kakà remembers telling him he shouldn't do that, remembers that first day, match in the dressing room, and his head was bowed, and Kakà had said it in Italian ( _you're making me nervous just looking at you_ ), and he'd looked up, slightly startled, and obviously hurriedly tried to dicipher it, finally did, and smiled shyly). Kakà, he _mmm_ 's and _hmm_ 's his way out of that conversation. Leaves an almost mournful Yoann in his wake as he turns to go.

 

There are some conversations though.

 

Sheva had called the day after the match.

" _Congratulazioni e buona fortuna_ " all in the same sentence.

"Do you think there is... faith?"

And he'd said, "You always have faith. It isn't about me."

 _You, it's all about you, you won, and you can. You can. It isn't about me, I was defeated, I am far away, and I remember too clearly._

 

Kakà thinks, _but then, why do I find myself losing it?_

 

Days later, and this time the phone rings in London.

"I. If. Will you?"

Kakà curses his inarticulacy, and his shaking hands, and England, and Chelsea, and Liverpool, and everything, all at once.

"If I can have faith, then yes."

 

 _Give me a reason, please, Ricky._

 

Three weeks, three weeks, and Kakà dreams of Istanbul every other night. (The ones in between, he dreams of Sheva, and not Andriy Shevchenko, whose penalty was saved, but Sheva, _his_ Sheva, and hotel room balconies, and the sea. And he wakes up with the taste of salt, and wine on his lips.)

 

There are 784 miles between London and Milan, and Sheva thinks he's covered them all in his thoughts.

 

 _I wish I could be there._ (And this is the first time he's really said that.)

 

Kakà feels something in his chest twinge uncomfortably.

 

He gets a call in an airport, five minutes before boarding.

"I don't need a reason. I believe. I love you."

 

 _Are you coming home, then?_

 

 _Maybe I will be there already when you get back._

 

 _(When you get back. Istanbul may not have been ours, and Athens, Athens might be yours, but Milan, we have Milan. We have Milan, and we can hold it to our breasts like a child.)_

 

Wants to say: _Don't you see? It has **everything** to do with you._

 

Doesn't and settles for this instead:

 

 _Grazie._


End file.
